


Rites of Passage

by hurricanine



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricanine/pseuds/hurricanine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Immortan who decides when it's time for the war pups to move on up and serve in other places in the citadel, but it's the war boys who truly put each other through their paces. This is a story of Nux and Slit's first ride together; it goes just about as well as you might imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first ride

Clear day for driving. Easy patrol – not that they need easy, but it's good to settle a first-timer's nerves. War boys don't feel fear, but Slit's seen enough blood spilled when a young pup gets overeager. Fucking waste. From his position on the rear lancer's perch, boots braced wide apart and hands steady on the glinting metal of the car, he can see the top of Nux's head and his hands in a death grip on the wheel.

Even though Nux has practically lived in the car from the moment he first turned the engine and heard her purr, Slit knows how much there is for a war boy to prove on his first run. Nux has every reason to want to make his name known to the other drivers... and to show Slit that he made the right decision in becoming his lancer.

Right decision or not, it had been the _only_ decision, as far as he was concerned. They'd been pups together, him and Nux. Trained together, shared a bunk, shared their meager meals. While Nux had been learning how to repair, build, and drive the rigs that were so vital to their lives, Slit had been honing his skills as a lancer, fighting off the claims of other drivers - all for some half-remembered, whispered promise of riding to Valhalla together.

The wind blows sharply across the dunes, catching the grit thrown up by the spin of the tires and throwing it back against him, stinging on his skin. They're not alone out here, in the wasteland – though it feels that way, with only blue skies proceeding them, a thousand miles of desert narrowed down into a pinpoint of hot sun and dry air.

Slit turns his head at the rolling thunder of a bike approaching, just in time to watch Gristle and Sok speed past and ramp off the rising dune ahead. They hang in the air, suspended in a spray of golden sand, and the other lancer turns to jeer at him, before disappearing over the crest. Slit feels a tug beneath his feet as the rig surges forward, Nux pushing at the gas to drive them up the dune, and there is a lurching moment as the wheels slip through loose sand.

“Steady!” He hammers his palm hard on the roof, the metal staples in his side glinting as he leans in to look at his driver. “Don't let them bait you!”

It's enough to make Nux ease off, and to Slit's relief the car slows so that they hit the dune and continue down the other side without a hitch, tires leaving long furrows in the sand as they coast to a stop near the war bike.

He spares a look into the cab, rolling his eyes at his driver's sheepish grin. His excitement would have been catching, but Slit's no longer a war boy fresh out of his days as a pup. Nux technically isn't either, has been working with the repair boys the last four hundred and some days, but he hasn't done war yet.

Nux is young, wide-eyed, and unblooded.

Rites of passage and tradition aside, Slit doesn't particularly fancy having to dig their car out of the sand if Nux manages to flip it.

“You're rust, Slit,” calls Sok, half hanging off the bike and making a rude gesture, looking annoyed that the newest war boy hadn't fallen for his trick. Slit is a little more creative with his gesture in return, but there's no real malice in it.

After all, it hadn't been a tripwire this time.

Gristle leans forward to catch Nux's eye and points straight ahead. “Follow the dunes three clicks west, ten north. We're joining Vox and Lurk at the red rocks.” The driver's voice, high and strong, carries easily over the wind and the thrum of idling engines. Out of the corner of Slit's eye, he sees Nux nod. Gristle turns her bike and guns it forward, Sok swinging back into place with practiced ease, and in another spray of sand she and her lancer vanish between the dunes.

Normally, two rigs and a war bike would have been overkill for a scouting party, but it was something of a tradition, taking a fresh, unvetted driver out on their first patrol. There had been practice runs, of course, to make sure the engine and suspension were good and ready for the road, and Slit has ridden enough with the younger war boy to anticipate how he might respond to a hazard on the road, the rumble of the engine as he shifted into higher gears, the pause before a sharp turn... but this is their first scouting run together, and he can taste how badly Nux wants to prove himself.

Slit thumps his hand on the roof and braces himself as the car jerks into motion. She handles so nice, and he's almost jealous of Nux's position in the driver seat, if it weren't for the front and rear lancer's perches being all but custom-made for him. Solid grating to stand on, curving grips to hold on to when the road or weather became rough, and enough thundersticks to bring down whatever they came across in the wasteland... It's a lancer's wet dream.

But they're not doing war. This far from the citadel, there isn't much to be seen, except sand and rocks; Buzzards like to nose in and scavenge, so there isn't even a scrap of metal to haul in for their efforts. But it's why they're out here – to keep the spiky bastards off their patch.

That, and it's not good to let war boys sit around too long. They get restless, and they get mean. Scrapping and scarring and fucking can only fill so much of the time.

It isn't long before he sees Nux's hand edging towards the nitro. He's incorrigible. Slit grins.

“Hey, Nuxy!” Slit drags himself up onto the roof, reaching in to shove at the back of his driver's head. “It's not a race!”

“Fuck off, _Shit_. I don't take orders from a lancer. ” But he can see the younger war boy grinning, ducking his head and easing off the pedal before shifting gears. Beneath them, the engine purrs.

She's a good rig. Nux is a natural with engines. Lucky for them both, Nux is a natural at driving, too. Anybody else might have been wary, heading out with a driver who hasn't even done war yet, but Slit has lanced on a fair share of rigs. He can be patient. After all, he hasn't lived this long being foolish – headstrong and hotblooded, sure, but never reckless. He's been witness to too many war boys, barely more than pups, jumping at the first chance to chrome their teeth and charge at the gates of Valhalla.

But he isn't the type. Neither is Nux.

No, _mediocre_. It'll be only the most glorious of deaths for him and his driver.

Satisfied that Nux won't veer from their course, Slit turns his attention to the horizon. Still well within the Immortan's territory, and with Vox and Lurk taking the outer boundary, it's hardly even necessary to keep a watch, but Slit knows better. Leave it to the others to spring a trap right when he decides to slack off.

It's the Immortan who decides when it's time for the war pups to move on up and serve in other places in the citadel, but it's the war boys who truly put each other through their paces. Today's more about the drivers, though that's not to say Slit hasn't been through an initiation of his own with the other lancers. So far, Nux is having an easier time of it than he'd had, back before he'd made a name for himself.

Through the frame of the car, he feels a subtle shifting of gears, and Slit bends his knees, riding out the sharp tilt as Nux turns their course north. He smirks and pulls himself up to speak through the panel on the roof, arms hanging lazily into the cab.

“Sure does turn on a dime.”

As expected, Nux's face glows with the praise, as if Slit had been talking about him and not the car. To be fair, there isn't much of a disconnect between the two.

“Had to make sure you weren't falling asleep back there.” Nux glances up with a blinding grin, his anxiety about the run buried under pride for his rig. Slit can't remember ever seeing him look so happy, and warmth curls in his gut.

He blames it on the hot summer sun overhead.

“With your shitty driving? Not a chance.” He brings his head up, lazy and content where he lies half over the roof, and idly scans the horizon. “All clear.”

“Think we'll run into trouble?” The younger war boy shouldn't sound so excited by the prospect, but Slit feels an answering spark surge through his blood. Nothing wrong with wanting a little glory on their first run as driver and lancer, now is there?

“Might. Buzzards been getting brave lately. Or stupid.” Slit shrugs.

Nux practically vibrates in his seat. For a moment he looks so painfully like a war pup. “Oh, I hope. Be real shiny to bring back a trophy on our first run.”

“More likely to get us blown up on our first run.” He leans forward and leers down at his driver, getting a couple knuckles to his face as Nux swipes at him. “Least you haven't crashed into anything yet.”

“That was one time!” Nux yelps and jerks up in his seat to hit Slit properly, but Slit only laughs and sinks down in his perch, far enough that the other boy can't reach him. So much for those ungodly long limbs of his. “I hadn't put in the handbrake - just wanted to test the engine!”

“Yeah, you tested 'em alright.” He cackles. “Tested 'em right off a cliff.”

“It wasn't even a ten foot drop.” Slit can hear the pout in Nux's tone, and it makes him laugh harder. “At least _I_ didn't drive her into the side of the citadel.”

He's quick to haul himself back onto the roof, grinning wildly down at the other war boy. “I ain't a driver, though. So it doesn't count.”

“The citadel, Slit. You can see it for miles.” Those bright blue eyes flash up at him; it steals his breath in the worst kind of way.

“You're so full of- _fuck!_ ”

He notices the glint of metal at the last moment, dives in to jerk the wheel hard. The rig goes skidding in a tight arc, on two wheels for a few dizzying moments before it thuds back on all four. Nux slams on the breaks and then they're sitting in silence; Slit swears he can hear their hearts pounding in tandem.

“What-... Slit!”

Slit grabs Nux's head in answer, jerks it around to see the thin line of a tripwire stretched across the hard-packed road. It isn't more than a yard away. He holds him there until it sinks in, then lets the younger man go and slides off the car. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“I didn't...”

“Shut up.” His tone is gruff, muscles still tight from their close call. It doesn't take long to disarm the trap, and he recognizes the handy work – Gristle. A nice little trick of setting flares to go off when it's triggered. Some of the war boys like to use them for races, but it's also handy for setting up unsuspecting drivers. Harmless, as far as the hazing goes.

He doesn't tell Nux, though.

He just coils up the wire and bundles the flares in it, dropping them in the back seat and squinting at his driver for a moment. “Well? They're waiting for us. Go.”


	2. joining

It's a long, tense drive, but Slit knows Nux won't be forgetting his lesson any time soon. Knows how easy it is to get lost in the exhilaration of it all – open sky and endless desert, the roar of a V8 engine... They're not doing war, not right now, but that doesn't mean someone else isn't. They do patrols to keep Buzzards off the Immortan's patch, to keep the rock riders in their canyon, to keep Bullet Farm and Gas Town and Citadel safe.

There's nothing else to see on the last leg of their patrol; it passes, blessedly, without event. The landscape roughens at the foothills of the Wall of Mountains, red scraggly rocks lining the desert at the furthest reaches of Immortan Joe's territory. It's a place as rough as the war boys themselves; even the earth is scabbed and scarred.

The designated rendezvous spot, though aptly named 'the red rocks', is indistinguishable from the rest of the rust colored outcroppings in the area. Slit knows the location purely from having been taken there on his first patrol. Leaning over the hood, he wordlessly points out the way, and together they navigate the maze of stones to a crescent shaped formation. It shields the camp from the worst of the wind and stinging sand, its existence unknown to all but the war boys.

He leans back in the lancer's perch as Nux eases in alongside Gristle's bike; Vox's rig is already there as well, but he can hear the engine ticking as it cools. Without waiting for his driver, Slit grabs the bundle of wire and explosives out of the car, ignoring Nux's questioning look as he hops down from the rig. Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he makes his way to the others, taking powerful strides as he leaves Nux scrambling to get out of the rig.

The others are settled in, sharing a packet of rations and a canteen of aqua cola between them. He drops the disarmed trap at Gristle's feet.

“Sloppy,” Slit says with a smirk.

The war boy unspools the wire and disconnects the flares, straight-faced as always. Slit's not actually sure he's ever seen her look anything but unimpressed.

“Aw, Slit,” Sok moans, leaning back and scratching at a long scar on his chest. “Ruin everything. Don't you wanna have a bit of fun with your driver before it's all done?”

“Don't need your help to do that.” Slit's eyes glitter as he sits down heavy in the sand and Sok laughs roughly, jostling his driver in the side. Gristle, as always, remains expressionless, merely glancing up and nodding as Nux hurries over to the group, breathless with excitement.

Sok tosses him the sun-warmed canteen and he sucks down a thirsty mouthful of sweet, clear water. Once he's had his fill, Slit shoves the canteen into his driver's hands, grunting and scooting over as Nux drops down against his side. He's somehow warmer, where they touch, than the sun-heated earth beneath them.

If a few drops of water escape the war boy's lips as he drains the canteen in quick gulps, Slit doesn't think about chasing them with his tongue. If he licks his lips, it's only to catch any stray droplets of his own.

“Any trouble on the outer perimeter?” Nux glances eagerly at Vox and wipes his mouth; Slit looks away.

The older driver shakes his head. “There were treads that couldn't have been more than a few hours old... but we saw nothing.”

Vox doesn't talk like a proper war boy, too many words and tone too soft, too even, but Slit wouldn't want to play chicken with his rig. He can be ruthless, same as the rest. Still, there's something in his voice, always has been, something that stirs the blood and entices boy and pup alike to fall hush and listen.

“Mutts,” grunts Lurk, the great boulder at Vox's side. Slit eyes him up, feeling a little impressed despite himself. The lancer's biceps are thicker than Slit's thighs.

“We did see a pack of feral dogs, that's true.” Vox glances at his partner and nods. “But they were too far off to take down, even for Lurk.”

Lurk grumbles, annoyed and yet conceding to his driver. It's no joke, though – Slit's seen him peg a rock rider at near eighty yards.

He spares a glance around their group, licking his lips again; the Immortan is right about water being a weakness, but it's all too necessary this far from the citadel. The remaining rations are passed around and he eats automatically, chewing the tack into paste. He isn't hungry, his appetite buried beneath the churn of anticipation, but he eats. Makes Nux eat as well, when at first the younger war boy shakes his head in refusal. They'll need it, come tomorrow.

There's a tension in the air. Slit can feel Nux ready to vibrate out of his skin, just as he had been in their bunk the night before.

The others seem to feel it, too. Even Gristle, the most stoic of their group, has something like interest in her eyes as she gives Nux a once-over. Sizing him up, and not looking disappointed by what she sees. Slit's not sure how that's true, because Nux is a tall, scrawny freak at best, but hey, looks aren't everything.

“Your car looks like she handles well... for a hulking rig. Nowhere near as clean as my bike.”

Nux perks up at the compliment, as backhanded as it might be. “Oh, yeah, but she can take a few hits, you know. More room for spears, too.”

“One's all you need, if'n you know how to handle it.” Sok leans in and gives Nux a lewd wink, and Slit shoves him back with a boot against the center of his chest.

It sparks a tussle, gravel and sand flying as he and the other lancer try to get a few punches in, before he feels someone grab him by the belt and haul him back. He lands half over Nux's lap, scrambling up and hissing a little at the solid, scowling form of Lurk towering above him.

“No fighting. Not 'fore the joining.”

Slit pants and twists around to look at him properly. “So you _can_ say more than one word at a time. Pay up, Nux.”

“Shut _up_.” His driver jabs him in the side, hard enough that there'll be a bruise later, but Lurk is already returning to his place at Vox's side. Just like that, he's motionless, all but carved from the earth itself.

“Nux. Slit.” All eyes turn towards Vox when he speaks. It's a captivating sound, like the Doof's war songs, like Immortan Joe when he speaks from on high. It feels like blasphemy to think it, but it's true.

Thoughts of fighting are gone, swept away like footprints in the desert. Slit scrambles to sit properly, but he's not quite guilty for engaging Sok; idiot had it coming.

“You both understand why you are here.” Vox pauses until both Slit and Nux nod. “Every war boy is brought here on his first run. If Valhalla is the end of the road... this is the start.”

Slit feels Nux shiver beside him, and his own skin prickles with the same sort of excitement. He's heard it before, but not from Vox – and it's different, now that he's here with his driver. More official, more real. More like it means something.

Lurk steps away following a soft word from Vox, climbing with ease to a fissure in the rock above. The sun is setting fast, casting deep shadows – the war boy's jaw and neck are painted black, giving him the chilling visage of a skull floating in the darkness. He's the oldest of the group, so look-out duty falls to him for the night.

“Clear,” he calls.

Vox's eyes are dark, like the black of the moon, as they move from Nux to Slit and back; he regards them solemnly, legs crossed and scarred hands perched on scarred knees. There isn't much of him that _isn't_ scarred, for that matter. His skin is a tangle of symbols, spelling out war boy rites and traditions in the only permanency they can.

“By the blessing of V8, all that is shiny and chrome, you are here.” He pauses, head bowing respectfully. One by one, the others follow suit. Slit is the last. “By the Immortan, who alone opens the gates of Valhalla, you have been made war boys. A driver. A lancer. Now, you will be made joined.”

With an air of utmost reverence, he reaches for one of Gristle's flares, and passes it to Nux – one driver to the next, from oldest to youngest.

Slit's careful not to look at him, keeping his eyes on Vox as Nux fumbles with the plastic rod, nearly dropping it before he has it lit. Finally, Slit leans forward and digs his hands into the sand and rocks, scooping out a hollow and filling it back in once Nux wedges the flare into the earth. The light it casts is bright and violent, flickering and drawing the contrast of his driver's war paint deeper.

“We give our lives willingly, gratefully, for Immortan Joe.” A stirring of wind fills the hollow, carrying away the murmurs of assent. “We will ride, eternal and chrome, on the roads of Valhalla. Driver, and lancer. Blood-bound.”

It's enough to give even the most hardened war boy chills, and Slit doesn't try to fight it. Just grabs hold of that dizzying feeling, lets it spread through him. The flare hisses and burns more brightly, blinding him to the darkness beyond their hollow. As he watches, Sok presses a knife into Vox's hand, the blade glinting like fire.

“Nux. Slit.” Over the violent burning of the flare, Vox extends the knife. Sparks play against the metal, blinking out when they fall into the sand. “Driver. Lancer. On the Fury Road, you must be one.”

Slit quickly removes his glove, holding out his arm and watching, out of the corner of his eye, as Nux does the same.

“By your deeds, will you honor him.” The blade touches his arm, burning hot from bathing in the flare. “Until death, you have pledged your service.” Vox brings the knife to Nux's arm in turn, and Slit can feel his driver tense. “In sight of V8, in sight of Immortan Joe, you are bound.”

The knife flashes between them, biting white-hot into their arms; pain wells up, sharp and angry, and Slit's not sure who whimpers, him or Nux. Their bloods spills, soaked up at once by the thirsty earth, and Gristle and Sok lean in to force their arms together, binding them with leather straps. More blood flows, squeezed out as the bindings are pulled tight, and the flare splutters out.

It leaves them light-blind, ears ringing in the silence, and Slit is suddenly aware of the night's chill.


	3. after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating will start to go up from here, be advised.

“Hey... Slit?”

Blood drips down the length of his forearm, slowly now. He doesn't know if it belongs to him or Nux – instead, some muddled in-between. Their skin sticks together, elbow to wrist, and it pulls unpleasantly whenever Nux shifts. Unbearable, at first, but the pain has faded into a dull throb.

The cuts are shallow, out of necessity. No one's ever died from the joining... but no one wants to be the first. Can't get to Valhalla, bleeding out from something like this.

“... Slit...?”

He's had worst, and Nux has too. He's bled enough, suffered enough... as much as any war boy. He's had his whole side gashed open, lost balance on a rig, before he knew to tuck and hit the sand. He'd caught himself against the bladed wheels, and it's a funny thing, that sort of pain where the brain is screaming to let go, but the body stays locked tight, holding on. He went through an entire blood bag himself; the Organic Mechanic still hasn't forgiven him for that one. Nux hasn't either, with the way he taps his fingers against the staples in Slit's side when he gets restless.

Like now.

“Slit!”

He feels the movement before the impact, a warning he is too slow to register. Stars explode behind Slit's eyelids when Nux butts their heads together, and after that there's really no use in ignoring his driver. He jerks back with a snarl, their bound arms twisting, dried blood pulling at their skin as, for a moment, they separate.

“What?!”

To his satisfaction, Nux recoils for an instant, but the motion is impeded by the leather straps around their forearms. Slit yanks his arm back against the tension; neither he nor his driver gain much ground in the ensuing scuffle, but it gets his heart going, helps draw him out of the broody silence he'd settled into.

“You went... all quiet,” Nux mumbles, something evasive in his tone.

Slit rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I was tryin' to sleep!”

“You had your eyes open!” The younger war boy aims a punch at his ribs and Slit twists to catch his wrist, pushing forward and toppling them over. They both hiss when their barely clotted cuts drag together.

“Maybe I sleep with 'em open, did you think about that?”

Nux gives him a challenging look. “Since when?”

“Maybe since always.” Slit scoffs. “You wouldn't know, you pass the fuck out the moment you're in our bunk.”

He isn't prepared for the surge of raw strength as Nux rears up, flipping them over and slamming Slit's back into the rough gravel. “Yeah, because I'm so _tired_ of dealing with all your _shit_!”

Slit grapples with their bound arms, squirming beneath the other war boy, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. Tradition has them bound driver's left to lancer's right, a mark of dominance, impeding the latter – but he's one of the rare ones who doesn't fit the mold, stronger with his left arm, and he makes sure Nux remembers that now. Gets a good left hook in, sees it rattle through Nux's jaw, and then Nux is on him, hot and unforgiving like everything else in their world.

The punches land quick, one-two-three in quick succession, until he's reeling and spitting blood; his driver backs off when Slit falls still, relishing the way the pain flares and dissipates, lost beneath the adrenaline. Slit groans and Nux laughs, but they both go silent when a new sound registers, briefly, in the night.

“... What was that?” Nux sits up, still astride Slit, but keeping the lancer pinned seems more of an afterthought now.

Slit tilts his head, angled off the ground to catch the low moans and the squeak of a car rocking on its chassis. He snorts and drops back into the sand; he can pinpoint the exact moment when the realization hits his driver, because Nux's cheeks go the faintest shade of pink through his clay, and he shifts awkwardly where he's straddling Slit.

Oh, chrome. Slit's eyes fall half-lidded and he wets his lips out of nervous habit – not that he's nervous, or anything, why the fuck would he be nervous, he's not some war pup on his first go down in the pit, after all. But he wants, he _wants_ , badly enough that he imagines Nux's eyes following the quick flit of his tongue. Slit swallows.

“... Sok.”

“Huh?” Nux blinks. Slit watches the gears turning in his head. The resulting pinched look on his face is priceless. “You know what he _sounds_ like? Slit!”

Slit stares up, unflinching. “Yeah, so what?”

“You...”

There's a long pause, stretching for an uncomfortable moment as another shuddering moan filters in through the crevasse of stone, and then it's Slit's turn to look disgusted. “... No! His bunk's on the way to go piss.”

“I-...” Nux blinks, and colors further. Slit wants to wipe the war paint off his cheeks and see that lovely color. “I thought that was snoring...”

Slit throws his head back and cackles, making a racket until Nux slams his hand down over his mouth, muffling him until the laughter passes. The quiet only makes other sounds more obvious – the grunts and sighs of the other pair coupling in the distance. He smirks against Nux's palm, watches the slow build of agitation until Nux shifts off. There's a momentary struggle as they find a more comfortable position for their arms, and then they're sitting side by side once again.

“Him... and Gristle...?”

“Sure.” He shrugs loosely, digging the fingers of his free hand into the grit and gravel. He waits a beat, and then smirks. “Gristle's... y'know. Like them Wives, down there.”

Nux shoots him a reproachful look. “Don't let her hear you say that...”

“Think I'm stupid?” That kind of talk, like maybe Sok only let his driver claim him on account of what she had down below the belt, was grounds for a proper throw down – and war boys like Gristle fought _mean_.

“... You want me to answer that?”

Slit rolls his eyes. “Anyway. So, she's... got the stuff for breeding. Barren, though.” He'd gotten Sok piss drunk enough to talk about it, once, and knew better than to ever bring it up again. “'pparently, they was gonna take her to the Immortan, but ain't much of a breeder if you can't breed.”

“She belonged to the Immortan?” Nux's eyes go wide, and Slit shifts a little at the pure devotion there.

“For a while, I guess. Don't talk to her 'bout it.” His lips curl into a smirk, and he leans in like he's a wise one sitting on the floor of the citadel, imparting knowledge to the pups all gathered around. The frantic rutting, faint but constant and edging to a peak, provides an adequate soundtrack to his tale. “Last war boy who did, she grabbed his dick so tight it coils up like a snake whenever he gets stiff now.”

He sits back with a nod, feeling a rush of satisfaction at his driver's gullible trust as he leans in eagerly, asking, “What? Who!”

“Axe.”

“Axe?” Nux parrots. “The Organic's Hand?”

Slit nods, sage and somber, but Nux's bark of laughter gives him pause.

“His cock doesn't look like that at all!”

It cuts like a knife, the jealous swell in the pit of his stomach. Like the bitter roil of bile, starving and sick. Screwing is something to do to pass the time – feels good and it's easier to come by than the drugs the red hands keep under lock. And it's not like _he_ hasn't done it, knows where to get it, the unspoken depths, the dark rooms that are just a press of hands and teeth and tongue, no faces, no names.

Nux must see it on his face, the unpleasant twist, because he shifts, awkward now. “Not like that. He, uh... Walked in on him and some black thumb in the repair bay. It wasn't...”

“Tch.” Slit looks away for a moment. “Like anyone would want their bits near _you_ , anyway.”

Drivers and lancers... they eat together, bunk together, work and ride together... and if it's not talked about, it's at least expected that they rut together too. But _wanting_... that's something else entirely. Makes a war boy soft – and soft makes a war boy dead. Nothing wrong with the frantic press of bodies in the darkness, sating lust that would otherwise distract... but the distraction _being_ the body, the long limbs and too soft lines, and eyes like the blue-white flare of a welding torch, that's...

Fucking soft. Fucking, _fucking_ soft.

It's silent, now. Slit feels it creep beneath his skin. Even the distant moans have finally ceased. He turns and gives Nux a kick as he lies back down in the dirt, wishing more than anything they were back in their bunk in the citadel... or, at the very least, in the narrow back seat of the car.

It takes a while for Nux to lie down, but he does. They're bound together, by leather straps and by the blood in their veins, but there's a distance between them. Slit's not sure if it's better or worse than the jealous sickness that still somehow lingers.

After a while, the crunch of gravel beneath a war boy's boots alerts them to Sok's approach; there's a swagger in his step as he walks past them to relieve Lurk. Slit doesn't pretend to be asleep; there's no need to fool anyone. This close, he can see the pale scars littering the other lancer's body, not all self-inflicted. His gaze is drawn to Sok's arm as he climbs up the rock to the look-out point, eyes fixed on the darkening ring of bruises around the joining scar.

His hand clenches, unbidden, and his fingers brush against Nux's palm. He feels his driver shift, hears the click of his throat as he swallows. Slit shuts his eyes, screws them up tight, and thinks about grenades and bullets and the deep slice of bladed tires until sleep takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The red hand, Axe, belongs to WhiteStag (mechaniqueknight).


	4. west

The rocks bite at his skin where he's curled on his side, sand collecting in cracks between the white clay, an aggravating itch that makes his muscles twitch like he's shooing flies. It leaves him longing for their stone bunk back at the citadel. Even with the ever present smells of sweat and guzzoline, the low mutters and echoing snores of the other war boys, and the far-off racket of machinery, it's what has lulled him to sleep for most of his half-life.

Out here, under the open sky, as guarded as their position is, it's unsettling.

Even the Coupe, cramped for two war boys to share, would have been better than sleeping on the ground, but it's all part of the joining. As far as he's concerned, Vox can go fuck himself – him and his rituals.

Slit breathes out slowly, shifting to ease the cramps building in his muscles from being locked so long in one position. His side's gone numb and it's the tingling jab of needles as blood flows back in. It's tempting to grab his knife and simply saw through the leather straps still binding him to Nux, but he knows his driver will only whine and moan about it when he wakes. Only the one who cut their arms is supposedly allowed to release their bonds.

Again, fuck Vox.

It all seems a bit ridiculous, with the cover of night behind them. Road flares and switchblade knives - it's no more real than the stories the Wretched tell themselves, about a better world, a once-upon-a-time world, where dirt was green and aqua cola fell from the sky. It's never sat right with him, all those things sounding too good to be true. Felt like bait, like the slivers of meat they set out to snare the wild dogs. Steel teeth with a hair trigger.

His driver lets out a groan when all the shifting finally wakes him, those long limbs unfurling as he stretches, lithe and beautiful. The sun hasn't quite risen, and the pre-dawn light makes the moment feel stolen, like forbidden glimpses of the Immortan's Wives. All of Nux's squirming brings him right up against Slit, a blaze of warmth against the desert's chill. He opens his eyes, soft and unguarded, and rubs one hand over his face.

“Slit? 's it morning?”

“Nearly.” Might as well be, for all he's paying attention. Their bound arms are trapped between their chests, fingertips pressed together in something frighteningly intimate. Either Nux doesn't notice, or he doesn't mind, because he simply closes his eyes and breathes.

It's never like this at the citadel, no time for lazy indulgence. Morning is a rush of war boys down to the mess hall for breakfast, hollering and jostling one another because no one wants to be left with the scraps – nights are exhausted, falling into their bunks and asleep before they hit the stone. It's as disconcerting, now, as sleeping among the the endless dunes and beneath the yawning sky. Slit can't stand the quiet, the waiting.

It's Nux who breaks the silence first.

“Knew it.” His chapped lips curl into a faint smile. “Y'don't... sleep with your eyes open.”

He'd have felt disappointed, if he'd been waiting for something meaningful or significant. Slit rolls his eyes, shoving roughly at Nux's chest, and sits up. The movement drags Nux up as well, and the war boy groans and wiggles around, clinging to that place in-between sleeping and waking. Laughing, Slit reaches to yank at Nux's ear, getting a hand slapped in his face for his efforts.

The fighting sets him at ease, as playful as it is.

It doesn't last.

“War boys!” Slit tenses at the urgency in Sok's voice calling down from the look-out post. “Storm east!”

Sand flies in a flurry of movement. Slit scrambles to his feet – or tries to, as Nux attempts to do the same, and they end up crashing together, sprawling on the hard ground, hands and feet shoving painfully as they make an ungainly attempt to right themselves. The blasted straps refuse to give, and with a snarl Slit twists to grab his switchblade, no patience for picking apart the loops and knots.

The leather is old and worn, stained dark with blood, but his knife slices through with the barest resistance. Slit twitches as the tip scores a fresh cut into his arm, but then the bindings fall away and he and Nux spring apart.

All his focus is on gathering their meager supplies and bolting out to their rig. He can't think about how it feels like he's cut out a part of himself, cutting those bonds; right now, distraction is death.

As he shoves the supplies into the narrow back seat of the Coupe, Slit catches sight of the mountain on the horizon. Clouds, not stone, he knows, but they seem to hang there, motionless, a brooding presence but not an immediate threat. A trick of the eyes, and if you're stupid enough to fall for it, you're too stupid to live. Sandstorms are as vicious and deadly as the churning engine of a war rig, and will chew up an unsuspecting war boy just as quickly. Nature and machine alike hold no remorse for the living.

“West - to Bullet Farm!” Gristle barks, revving the engine of her war bike. There's no room for argument or debate – with a sandstorm bearing down, decisions must be made on the fly. She and Vox are experienced drivers, and Slit trusts their judgment. He knows they don't have the rations to hold out, if the storm lasts more than a day.

This was only supposed to be a day long scouting run.

The instant Sok slides in behind her, Gristle guns it. Vox is hot on her heels, sliding fluidly into his car and waiting only long enough for Lurk to get adjusted before tearing out across the dunes. Slit plants his feet on the lancer's perch, slamming his hand on the roof, twice in quick succession, and Nux puts the pedal to the floor.

It's a tense race against time. Slit keeps a wary, cursory watch for Buzzards and the like, but over and over again his eyes are drawn to the curtain of dust and sand drawn behind them. It stretches miles long, blotting out the sun and casting the world into muted shadow. He feels the engine surge as Nux cranks open a canister of nitro, but even as their rig eats up kilometer after kilometer, the storm rolls closer.

They lose sight of Gristle and Vox almost instantly, but Slit knows his bearings as well as Nux. Due west will take them almost directly to Bullet Farm, and the Bullet Farmer himself has never turned down a war boy in need. Slit almost feels like praising V8 that they're not closer to Gas Town instead – they might not be turned down, with a storm on their heels, but at what price?

The wind starts to whisper at his back, not strong enough to stir up the sand, but a dark promise none the less. His attention is torn from the first inklings of worry by a column of dust over the ridge to their right, and Slit leans in to bang on the roof, making sure Nux doesn't miss it.

“Too far south?”

Slit is silent, and Nux corrects their course – but cresting the ridge doesn't bring them to the edge of Bullet Farm. He swears viciously as Nux slams on the breaks, bringing them to a screeching halt not even half a click away from a war party. He knows they haven't been seen yet, on account no one's started shooting, but it won't last long.

The shapes of the rigs are unfamiliar. The welding, the markings... foreign. There's something like the Buzzards in their design, but Slit's never heard of a band of scavengers as big as that. They don't seem bothered by the approaching sandstorm, either – not running from it, not hunkering down in the sand to last it out.

A shout goes up as a look-out finally catches sight of their rig. Slit jerks into action as Nux slams on the gas and spins them around; it they're lucky, only one or two will chase after, and he's got all he needs to take them out. The thunderstick feels good in his hands, and keeping his balance as Nux goes flying off the ridge and up and over rows of dunes feels better.

For a moment, there's nothing. Not a single pursuit vehicle. Finally, as the plume of dust begins to dwindle, a solitary rig comes flying after them. It's lean and sharp like a feral dog, no thundersticks or flamer-guns to be seen, but the lack of visible weaponry doesn't make him drop his guard. Slit grins, hefts the spear onto his shoulder, and waits for the mutt car to come into range.

Then the storm hits.

Slit's stomach drops with the pressure, right before he's pelted by stinging flecks of sand. He grits his teeth and shoves the haft of the spear back into its slot, dragging his scarf up to cover his mouth and nose. The clouds billow in, obscuring the other rig from sight, but the force of the gale nearly tips their car up and over. He hears Nux yelp, feels the resulting struggle against the wind to keep their car on all four wheels, but they spin in a dizzying circle before Nux gets it under control again.

“Need to stop!” Slit shouts, clutching at the railings of the lancer's perch. He doesn't know if Nux can hear him, because the rig doesn't, in fact, stop, or even slow down. They're flying blind, rocketing over dunes and plunging down the other side, only to surge up and over the next. He drags himself up to the panel over the roof, panting beneath his scarf and squinting hard against the scouring sand. “Nux!”

It takes all his strength to yank it open, and startled blue eyes meet his own. Slit's breath catches. War boys don't feel fear, but he sees something awful close to it there.

“Slit-”

The car lurches forward, a thunderous sound like gunfire erupting from the desert. For a split second, Slit thinks they've run over a landmine, or that the pursuit vehicle has opened fire.

But then they fall, the sand parting like a hungry maw opening up to devour them. They fall into darkness.


	5. breathing

The quiet dark of the citadel is a welcome relief to his desert-hot mind. Slit turns his head and presses the side of his face against the cool stone beneath him. He can feel the twinge of cuts and bruises as he shifts, white flashes of pain lancing through his skull as the rest of his body wakes up and demands to be heard. The injuries are biting and sharp, drawing his attention from the dull ache that permeates the rest.

They could have at least had the courtesy of taking him to the Organic before piling him into his bunk.

Or maybe they had, and this is what he's left with.

Slit rolls on his back and breathes in the smell of rock and the deep things of the earth; his side catches on the inhale, the unmistakable agony of a half rack of cracked ribs. He knows there's nothing to do for those but keep the strain off, and he stretches his arm out to Nux, to jab at his side and make him flinch, to know that the pain is shared, if only fleetingly.

He touches nothing. When he opens his eyes, it's only to find himself staring at an unfamiliar, sloping ceiling. He blinks, and the grit of sand feels like crushed glass beneath his eyelids, drawing tears to his eyes. It's the worst sort of weakness, a betrayal of the body that he's helpless to stop; Slit rubs the wetness from his cheeks with a vengeance, no concern for the bruises and cuts the motion sets aflame. His palms come back smeared with blood.

Sitting up is a fresh hell. His eyes start to water again, a useless waste of precious fluid, but it clears his vision. He's in a cave, that much is clear, not unlike the tunnels beneath the citadel. There's a hole overhead, letting a little pallid light filter in despite the storm still raging. The gap seems hardly big enough to have fit the rig, but there it is – a glint of chrome in the darkness, half buried in sand and rock and rotted wood.

“Nux...” There's a fistful of sand in his throat and coughing reignites the fire in his ribs. Worse still is the pain as he drags himself across the floor of the cave, one hand in front of the other; his body feels clumsy and slow, a rig sputtering on its last drops of guzzoline. His fingertips brush the metal frame of the car, curling around the exhaust pipes, and Slit rasps a growl as his body refuses to move as quickly as his mind.

Nothing feels broken, but there's a disconnect, and it's almost worse.

“Nux... You better not fuckin' be...”

Slit wrenches the door open, choking on the dust and sand he dislodges. There's still more pouring down from the mouth of the cavern, blown in by the howling storm, and he doesn't waste time in shoving his hands under Nux's armpits and hauling him out onto the ground, dragging him back to where he was thrown from the rig.

Slit drops him on the ground, stomach turning sickly at the way Nux's head lolls back. He touches the blood on his driver's face, still oozing sticky and wet from the line of his goggles, from his broken nose. He crouches there, holding Nux's face in his hands, until he feels a fragile breath of air curl against his wrist.

Breathing.

_Alive_.

“Idiot,” Slit hisses, ripping the goggles off of his driver's face, pressing his thumbs sharp into the cuts until Nux groans and coughs, digging his nails in until the war boy jerks, until his eyes flash open, hazily unfocused, seeing blind. Slowly, they lock on Slit's face, his breathing turning ragged, rapid as the panic and pain of their crash floods back in.

The relief in Slit's mind is dizzying. He sits back on the ground, reeling with it; he wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to punch Nux square in the face. Instead he curls his fingers over palms sticky with both their blood, and wonders why it strikes him so deeply.

It's his driver, yes, but war boys are no stranger to death. It's as much as part of life as the skull-like war paint and scars they adorn their bodies with.

It's dying soft, he tells himself – dying out of war, in the middle of a sandstorm, with no one to witness.

Knows it's not, but pretends it is. It's easier to buy into the religious fervor, instead of admitting he was terrified that Nux was-

“... Slit?” Nux mumbles, struggling to sit up. His speech is shaped thickly around a mouthful of blood and sand and swollen tongue. Probably bit it when they crashed.

Again, he's made painfully aware of his driver's inexperience.

“Nice driving, Nuxy,” Slit says. He rolls his eyes at the awkward grin Nux makes in response, watching the other war boy sink back down to the ground. When he starts to lose focus again, Slit growls and darts in, smacking his hands against the cuts on the younger boy's cheeks.

“Wh... Ow, Slit, why, stop.” Nux squirms, and Slit leans back, lets him struggle woozily to sit up on his own. He studies the murky confusion, watches Nux's face as he takes a slow look around them. The rubble, the car, the cave. “Where...”

Slit points upward in response. There are wooden beams supporting the roof of the cave, in the old style he's sometimes seen when they raid old settlements. The entrance must have been boarded up and lost beneath the ever shifting landscape of rocks and sand. Maybe it was just forgotten - maybe there wasn't anyone left to remember.

It's not a long way up. They could climb, but it won't be so easy to leave the rig behind. Slit hasn't got a clue where they are, or how far they are from Citadel, or Bullet Farm. Taking it on foot might as well be a death sentence, and returning home without their rig, well... They'd be better off dying out here and never letting the others know their shame.

“Gristle... and Vox?” Nux slurs a little, but his eyes look more alert with the damage assessed.

“Hunkered down in the sand, if they knows what's good for them.” They're experienced; Slit isn't worried.

The other war boy shakes his head, then makes the slow journey back over to the Coupe. He struggles to pull himself up against the car, and Slit lets him, taking the time instead to run his fingers over his skin. Cut to his forehead. Cracked ribs. Bruises here, bruises there – his whole body feels like one big bruise. Getting thrown from a rig and landing on sand is a lot more gentle than falling on hard stone.

One of the metal staples in his side is loose; Slit grits his teeth and presses it back in with his thumb.

As far as injuries go, they got off easy. They're lucky one of the thundersticks didn't ignite during the crash, or there wouldn't be enough left to put them together again.

“She's in one piece.” Nux's comes out muffled from where he's squirmed his way under the car, just a set of legs sticking out amid the rubble. “Nothing's cracked that I can't patch.”

“Great.” Slit crawls over and wraps his fingers around Nux's ankles, dragging him back over the wreckage of wood and rock. “You gonna fly us up out of this cave, too?”

Nux always looks happier with engine grease on his hands, and now is no different. He grins, a gentle kind of hope that Slit isn't used to seeing. “We'll find a way. Maybe Bullet Farm isn't too far. When the storm clears, we can walk, and...”

“And what a laughing stock we'll be.” Slit rolls his eyes. “A couple'a war boys, lost their rig down a hole. What did I _say_ – more likely to get us crashed on our first run.” He scoffs and turns away, but he's stopped by the lightest press of a hand on his wrist.

He almost doesn't look over, wanting to hold on to that burr of annoyance instead. It's better than letting anything else in, better than letting himself go soft where Nux can see it.

But his driver doesn't seem to share any of his reservations on the matter.

Slit risks a glance at Nux just in time to see those blue eyes slide shut, those fragile lips part as he presses his face to Slit's palm. He's warm, and Slit can feel when he exhales, the softest breath of life trailing over the smears of blood and dirt on his hand. It blows any previous definitions of the word _intimacy_ clear out of his mind.

“Slit...” The way Nux sighs his name is all at once exhausted and fond. It makes his heart clench in the worst kind of way, recognizing the same relief that he feels, that they are both alive and whole. It's soft, it's disgustingly soft, and weak, and everything he knows they _shouldn't_ be, but maybe it's the fall or maybe it's the joining still fresh in his mind, but Slit can't bring himself to pull away. He can't push down the warmth spreading through him.

“Knew it,” he mumbles, almost not recognizing his own voice, for how quiet it is. But there's no need to talk any louder – they're alone, miles from anyone who would care what they say or do in this moment. “First taste of trouble, you start getting' soft. Why I ever let a driver as weak as you claim me, I'll never know.”

It's meant to hurt, to needle, to rile Nux up and get him feisty, so they can pretend this never happened, but Nux simply opens his eyes and gazes up at him, undeterred. His hands trail up, leaving smudged fingerprints of engine grease pressed into Slit's skin, one-two-three tapping over the scabbed cut on his forearm.

Slit looks away – _has to_ look away. But he can still feel those fingers, long and delicate, just right for a blackthumb, where Slit never had the finesse. They're good for more than just taking apart engines, it seems, because Nux is breaking him down just as efficiently.

“Slit.” Nux's lips move against his palm, and it sends an entirely different kind of warmth right to the pit of his stomach.

Finally, it's enough to spur him into motion.

“You're right,” he says, and jerks his hand away. “Better get some sleep in the car, before the storm passes. No use in wasting the light when we have it.”

Slit climbs over the other war boy on his way into the Coupe, focusing on the burn in his ribs and not the echoes of soft lips on his skin. Nux is just concussed, he tells himself. The blow to the head scrambled his brains, and by morning he'll have forgotten it entirely. They're going to sleep, and they're going to never speak about this again.

It's all well and good, but in his hasty escape, he didn't quite account for Nux sleeping in the car _with_ him. It isn't long at all before his driver crawls into the rig, hands and knees shoving over Slit as he gets himself comfortable, and then, oh, _glory_... Nux settles down against him, pressed together from head to toe, chest against chest and legs tangled on the narrow seat.

Slit knows it makes sense, sharing warmth to ward off the cave's natural chill. He can't help thinking of ways to make it warmer, how easy it would be to get their blood pumping hot and strong, how natural it would be to rut in the darkness, in the familiar safety of their rig. How _expected_ it would be, how no other war boy would fault them for it.

The rig squeaks a little on its chassis as Nux shifts around, pillowing his head against Slit's shoulder. So frequently they had slept like this in their bunk, out of necessity, for the lack of space. It's no different now, but he can't shake the feeling that it _is_ , somehow, different. It's been less than a day since their joining, since sharing their blood – a lifetime, since curling on the ground and wishing he could be tucked into the car instead. Now that they're here, he's not sure that he wants to be.

“Mn... Slit?”

Slit shuts his eyes. He grunts, wary of what Nux has to say.

“Do you... regret being my lancer?” The words are soft with sleep already, and Slit must be blessed, because only a moment or two after speaking, Nux's breathing evens out, deep and slow as it trails over his collarbone.

Even with his driver a dead weight against his chest, lost to unconsciousness, Slit doesn't trust himself to answer.


	6. aqua cola

“We can use a wench.” Nux gestures excitedly to the roof of the cavern and Slit slowly follows the motion. “See the pulleys? I think they must've used 'em to haul up carts, like at the lead mines under Bullet Farm!”

He'd woke that morning to the crash and clatter of his driver clearing away the wreckage. There's a lot of it, for the size of the hole above, but now he can see the chains of a rusted pulley system, painstakingly untangled by Nux. Slit eyes them, then casts a skeptical glance upwards. The worst of the sandstorm is over, but the sky is still thick with clouds and now and again the wind stirs up, angry and sharp as it howls over the entrance to the cave.

“Car weighs more than a cart, Nuxy.” He ignores Nux's exasperated sigh; the reaction is the only reason he still uses that nickname. “Even one loaded up with rock. Those chains break, and we really will be stuck down here.”

“Simple. We offload the dead weight.” Nux makes his way towards the car, but pauses, smirking as he pats Slit's chest. “That means you, Slit.”

Slit rolls his eyes, but Nux doesn't move his hand. It remains, palm flat, over the quickening beat of Slit's heart. He can't help but shift his weight from one foot to the other, a faint sway that mimics his indecisive mind. He wants to shove Nux away – _should_ shove him away – but the war boy's hand is warm, and he remembers so vividly the press of it against his wrist the night before.

He doesn't know what it means. He knows what he _wants_ it to mean, he knows the burn of desire and the ache to take Nux and throw him over the hood of the rig, but it's more than that and it's the kind of weakness that just isn't allowed. If he allows himself that, it'll be the end of him. If Nux wants to rut, fine, but that'll be on Nux's head, not his.

There's a long stretch of silence, and he realizes that Nux is waiting for him to reply. Slit scowls, twisting his face against the burn of embarrassment on his cheeks. “See, I was thinking we could use _you_ as a counterweight, since there's nothing in your head but rocks and dust.”

The comeback, however awkward and delayed, makes Nux grin and shuffle closer. Now Slit _knows_ his driver is concussed – maybe they both are. He snorts and shoves Nux's hand away, forcing himself to turn and walk a few steps before the other war boy can catch him. There'll be plenty of time for doing things they'll later regret, when they're safely out of here.

“Gonna take a look around,” he mutters. The strides that take him away from his driver are purposeful, masking uncertainty with determination.

“Don't go too far,” Nux calls, a hint of hesitation in his voice. Slit grunts; when his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, he glances back and watches his driver return to the task of clearing out the rubble from around the car, slender hands working steadily to free their vehicle. The meager light allowed in by the clouds above illuminates him, catching on the long lines of his back.

Okay, so maybe it's moved past being a problem, now. Slit turns away from the sight. He just needs to get it out of his system; he's too wound up out here, he needs something to kill, he needs to do war, he _needs_ to feel Nux under him, between his legs, beneath his hands and mouth. Just once, just to take the edge off, to get rid of the distraction once and for all.

_Nux is my driver_ , he reasons, _it doesn't have to be once_.

He thinks about Gristle and her lancer, rutting after the joining with no regard for who might be listening. Sok's arm, the scar, the rings of bruises pressed in by his driver's teeth. It makes Slit's arm itch, the scab there still healing, and he shakes it off. The last thing he needs right now is to get so distracted by his _pining_ that he gets lost in the darkness of the cave.

The cavern's not so big, but there are tunnels branching out. Too small to drive the Coupe through, and no guarantee that any of them lead up and out. There could be a maze of passageways down there, where one wrong turn would see him lost and left to starve; most war boys didn't even have the nerve to venture into the tunnels beneath the citadel, too wary of dying soft.

Slit makes his way around the outer edge, keeping his left hand against the wall. It seems like ages, taking slow steps, not willing to lose his footing on the slick stone. Nothing but rock and the occasional mine cart – he can't figure out what they were mining down here, since the carts themselves are filled with only more rock. What would someone want with that much stone?

The next step he takes brings his boot splashing down into a puddle. Run-off, from the car? Surely Nux would have notice if they'd sprung a leak and all the guzzoline had pooled out. But it's deep, stretching out for yards beyond his foot, a faint ripple of light reflecting onto the wall of the cave and the ceiling above. Slit stares, uncomprehending, until he realizes that it's _water_.

He jerks back in a hurry, eyes wide to make out what he can in the low light; cautious, he crouches, fingertips reaching into the liquid, nostrils flaring as he sniffs. It doesn't smell bad, doesn't smell like much at all. It's cool and clear when he plunges his hand in – _aqua cola_ , just like from home, just like the precious, precious fuel handed down by the Immortan.

All theirs. They found it, accident or otherwise. Crashed down nearly on top of it, lost and blinded by a sandstorm, a novice driver on his first run, but this... it's _theirs_.

“Oh, Nux... Only you.” Slit cups his hands in the water and splashes it on his face, rubbing the blood and grit out of his eyes and off of his cheeks. His tongue flits out, lizard-like, and the water is almost as sweet as mother's milk. He cups his hands again, lifting them to his mouth, and drinks deeply. It's like he's never drank before, the way it fills his mouth and throat, a cold trickle into his stomach.

It goes to his head, or it must, because he sees something chrome flash in the depths of the pool. Slit freezes, watching; there's another flash, a fluid ripple like a snake, only he's never heard of a snake living in water. Or maybe they do – he's not exactly an expert on aqua cola. So he stares, transfixed, and then his hand strikes out.

The water snake, whatever it is, is as pale as war chalk. There are no eyes where eyes should be, and Slit wonders if it's a long lost relative of the Doof, but there are no fangs in its gasping mouth either. It wriggles in his hands like it wants back in the water; Slit sinks his teeth into its scaled belly, clamping down until it stops moving.

It tastes sweet, like the water. There's a lot of meat, more than he's ever had his teeth in, and the bones are almost soft. Slit swallows a mouthful and picks a scale out from between his teeth, sitting back and rasping, “Nux.”

He has to call his driver's name a second time before the younger war boy tears himself away from the rig and crosses the cavern to him. Slit watches him blink in the darkness, eyes adjusting, and then the look of surprise as he takes in the pool of water.

“Water?” Nux drops down to his knees, splashing his face like Slit had done, then sucking down the aqua cola in greedy swallows. He sits up, eyeing the creature his lancer is eating. “What's it? You catch a lizard?”

“Nah.” Slit shakes his head, licking his lips. “'s a snake. Cola snake.”

“Lizard, Slit. See?” Nux shoves up against him, reaching to tug at the webbed extensions on the snake's sides. “Never seen a snake with feet.”

“You never saw a cola snake before.” Slit scowls and pulls the half-eaten thing away, getting another mouthful of meat before he hands it over to his driver. “I caught it. I get to call it what it is.”

Nux is quick to devour the rest, spitting bones and scales back into the pool. The disturbance draws even more of the pale white snakes and the nibble at the remains. Slit considers catching another, but he already feels half sick with all the meat and cold water sitting in his belly. It's a rare commodity, eating and drinking until he's full – and still there's _more_.

“'m gonna take a bath,” Nux says, and Slit leans back to watch as his driver gets to his feet, hopping in place as he tugs off his boots.

“... bath?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Like the Wives. In the water.”

“Weak,” Slit grumbles, but there's no heat behind it. His skin itches, the sandstorm having turned his war paint gritty, and he can't deny how chrome the cold water would feel on his bruised body. Still, he waits until Nux has stripped down, splashing into the pool and scattering the cola snakes with his intrusion.

The pool is deep, deep enough for Nux to duck completely under the surface and come up shivering, shaking the water out of his eyes. Beads of water drip down his skin, and Slit's mouth goes dry as he watches their slow path, thirsty even though he's already drank his fill.

“Slit! Come on!” Nux grins. As he rubs at the blood on his face, cleaning out the cuts left by his goggles, Slit reluctantly pulls off his boots.

Slit should refuse, call it soft for bathing like only the Immortan's Wives are allowed to do; but by the time he's formed an argument, he's already stepped out of his cargo pants and into the water. It's frigid, lapping at his ankles, then his thighs, his waist, his chest, nearly at his shoulders as he moves next to Nux. When he stills, he can feel the blind snakes bumping up against his legs, but they don't seem interested in biting.

“Real shine, isn't it,” his driver says, his tone half a sigh, as he scrubs at the layers of sand and dirt covering his chest. The clay comes away too, turning to wisps of white in the water. It leaves only the pink of Nux's skin beneath.

“I guess. If you're soft,” Slit grumbles, turning away to rub at his own chest and torso. It's so strange to get clean with water – normally it'd be an unforgivable waste, and it's quicker to scour the old clay and dirt away with fistfuls of sand. But something about it is soothing, too, and Slit can't help but dunk his head under the water, marveling at the cool liquid all around.

It helps soothe his cuts and bruises, too, takes some of the sting out of the ache in his side. When he straightens, he rubs his hands over his face and the back of his head, sloughing away the clay and sand, feeling the uneven prickle of hair that will need to be shaved in a few days.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand on his back, and Slit tenses further when Nux steps up, scratching his nails over the lines of scars and old road rash, loosening the packed on clay and dirt. It's silent, now, and he can hear their breathing over the lapping of water against their sides – he can _hear_ Nux's mouth open to speak, then falter and shut once more.

His driver's hands don't move away, just trail lower, getting at the spots Slit can't reach. It takes a while before he's completely clean, every inch scrubbed pink, and Slit's slow to turn back around. Somehow, he feels more naked without his war paint than he does without his clothes. When he turns and sees how the other war boy is looking at him, intent and hungry, his breath catches and this time it has nothing to do with the cracks in his ribs.

The look is gone in an instant.

“Do me?” Nux's grins loosely, a lopsided smile as he turns his back to Slit.

“Yeah... Yeah.” His voice is ragged, and Slit jolts into motion, bringing his hands up to scrub at the spots Nux missed. The war boy's skin is smooth under his tough, so few scars and lumps. How many times has he helped his driver put on fresh clay? Yet now it feel so different, the _intimacy_ of it, washing away the very thing that marks them as _war boys._ It's something that shouldn't be allowed, yet here, hidden beneath the earth, there is no one to stop them.

He stares for a long moment, watching water drip tantalizingly down the dip of Nux's spine, pink skin only a shade lighter than his own. His blood feels like it's thrumming with nitro, a rush like the kind that comes after throwing a lance and feeling the raw heat of the explosion. Slit leans in, tongue flashing out to catch the droplet, and he feels Nux shiver.


	7. starburst

Nux's skin beneath his tongue tastes as sweet as the water he'd cupped in his hands, the hunger in his belly becoming a wild, ravenous thing. Slit flattens his tongue and laps up the wet trails left by the droplets like a man addicted to aqua cola – only they're standing waist deep in the stuff, and it's the furthest thing from his mind.

He puts his hands on Nux's skin once more, on the excuse of wiping away the clay, and he feels his driver shudder again; the touches are just this side of too deliberate, too lingering, and he knows it gives him away. Standing there in the cool water, he should be shivering right along with Nux, but he feels like he's burning up... probably on account of his prick taking a keen interest in the situation. They're half a foot apart, but it's like his body is trying to rise up and touch Nux on its own accord.

In the darkness of the cavern, the only sounds are the faint lapping of water and their quickening breaths, and with Nux facing away it feels like he's allowed anything he wants. If they don't look, if they don't acknowledge, then it's as though this isn't happening at all.

He doesn't lick again, but his breath comes out in slow pants, and he watches Nux's skin pinch and gather, goosebumps spreading across the smooth surface. The things he wants to do to his driver... He was right to have labeled this a distraction. They should be working on getting themselves and their rig out of here in one piece, and instead they're indulging in... whatever this is. His gaze is caught on the expanse of Nux's back, the dip of his spine, and the gentle tuck of his waist, eyeing him like he's fit to be devoured, tracing that path again with his eyes, churning in his mind like a tire spinning uselessly in the sand.

Nux shifts, his footing careful; Slit's hands tense on the war boy's back, Nux's name halfway to his lips, an offer of _stop, and we'll pretend this never happened_.

But Nux continues to turn, not heeding the silent warning, and the hunger Slit had seen before is back in full force, mirroring his own. He's aroused too, that much is unmistakably clear.

There's no going back now, no hiding or pretending... so he stops trying.

Slit looks at him, drinks his fill, trails his gaze slowly from the flush on Nux's face, the spread of it clear down to his collarbone, tightened nipples and tense muscles, and the curve of his cock, distorted beneath the water's surface. Slit's never seen something look so good in all his life – and he's watched Nux a lot, as shameful as it is to admit.

And then Nux leans in and licks the water from his neck, and all of Slit's breath goes out at once. He tips his head back, and Nux immediately fills the space. Slit's eyes go half-lidded, watching the dizzying shimmer of light reflected on the cavern's roof, because he can't think of anything better in all the world to do than to get more of that feeling, more of Nux's mouth on him, lips and tongue and teeth so slow and exploring. The press of Nux's mouth is so cautious, like he can't decide whether he wants to kiss or consume. Slit's not sure he'd mind either way, with every touch sending a jolt straight to his cock, making him twitch in the water.

There's a press of a hand on his side, familiar fingertips tracing the path of the scars on his belly, and Slit jolts; he nearly slips on the slick bottom of the pool and Nux's arms slide right around him, holding him in place, bringing their bodies together and oh, _oh_...

Nux's hips jolt against his, a hot slide of friction where he wants it the most. It takes so little to leave them trembling, and Slit knows it must be the days and days of pent-up longing, because those moments of quick release in the dark never felt like _this_. It was never with Nux, though, not until now, and Slit growls under his breath, grabbing Nux and digging his fingertips into the supple curve of his ass to steer his thoughts away from weakness, and he smirks when Nux gasps against his throat.

Standing in the water isn't conducive to much, not in terms of rutting, so when Nux's hands press at his chest, urging him back towards the dry stone ledge, Slit doesn't fight against it. He lets go of his driver to haul himself up onto the cool cavern floor, cock bobbing up against his belly.

He has to admit, their bath _did_ make his aching side feel better. The cold water soothed his cuts and bruises, but the sight of Nux, dripping wet and naked, distracts him from the pain altogether. Slit watches, entranced, as the his driver climbs out of the pool, graceful like he has no right to be. The sight of those long limbs and pink skin, and the visceral, electric charge in the air, makes him think for half a breath that he's stumbled across something holy.

But there's nothing holy, nothing pure, about the way Nux slinks over to him, not bothering to rise above his hands and knees, and kisses him. It's hungry, like the way Nux had mouthed at his neck, but soft enough to make Slit's chest ache. He tilts his head and presses his teeth into the plush skin of Nux's bottom lip, forcing the kiss rougher, back into territory that is familiar, a place he knows is safe.

A quiet sound works its way up Nux's throat, caught between a whimper and a moan. Nux pulls back, then presses forward again, still so infuriatingly _soft_ , unrelenting until Nux finally forces him back against the ground and settles over him, and then all Slit knows is the pressure of lean muscle and the hard edge of bone, and the blindingly hot line of Nux's cock pushing right up against his own.

Slit's head falls back, a guttural moan ripped from his chest, and he's helpless to the frantic push of his hips upwards, driven mad by the need for friction. He's surprised the water from their bath hasn't been burnt away, like steam off a hot radiator. Just when he feels as though he's fit to shake apart, lust and need and _too much_ and _not enough_ rattling around in his brain, Nux's hands settle on his cheeks and he kisses the desperation out of him, drawing it out like poison

He trembles, and he tenses to stop the shaking. Nux isn't quite still against him, a slow roll of his hips like he can't bring himself to quit. Slit shifts, just enough that the head of Nux's cock catches against his own, slick like motor oil, and they both moan. The sound is overly loud in the yawning silence of the cavern, but there's no reason for them to be ashamed; back in the citadel, things might have been different, but they're miles from home and stripped down to bare skin, and Slit can't bring himself to care.

“Slit...” Nux's voice trembles, like a shiver caught in his throat, and Slit turns his head to mouth at his neck, wanting to taste the sounds as he makes them. What he's doing can't rightfully be called kissing, using his tongue and teeth as much as his lips. He works his way to the curve of Nux's shoulder, a wide press of teeth there like he wants to devour the other war boy.

But you're not supposed to mark when you're rutting, everyone knows that. They're transient things, the Immortan's property, _his_ half-life war boys, they bear _his_ brand – or at least that's what they were all told, young pups first starting to itch for release. But Nux is _his_ driver, and when his teeth scrape back up against the skin over his rapid pulse, and he feels Nux's breath shudder out like he wants the very same thing, Slit knows he would give it all to clamp his teeth in such a claim.

He draws back, before the temptation becomes too much, and tilts his head up in a kiss instead. Nux bears down against him so beautifully, hips working them back into a steady rhythm. When Nux catches Slit's bottom lip between his own and suckles lightly, Slit can't stop the slow moan and jerk of his hips, his cock leaking slick and messy against his stomach. It's better for Nux to thrust against, though, quickening until Slit has to move his hands to Nux's hips to steady him.

The curl of pleasure is too much, too perfect, filling him until he's delirious with it, panting into Nux's mouth and kissing him when he can manage it. It's Nux who breaks first, yelping and riding hard against him, but Slit can only take pride in it for a moment, because the feeling of Nux spilling and shuddering against him is nothing compared to the low, desperate moan of Slit's name on Nux's lips.

That's all it takes. Slit jerks, arching up off the hard stone beneath, cock twitching and pulsing as he comes, messy and _perfect_.

He falls back, and Nux falls against him. They lie there, panting, boneless, sated; in the lazy afterglow, Slit wonders if they might stay there after all, living off of cola snakes and clean water, knowing only the touch and taste of each other. It's a dangerous thought, but Slit knows it would never last – they'd be climbing the walls, killing each other once the days started to drag on. Nothing worse than letting a war boy get bored.

Nux starts to shift, and Slit hooks an arm around his waist, keeping him still. He feels a huff of air against his neck, a quiet chuckle.

“Slit...” There's something in his tone that means he's going to want to _talk_ , and Slit intends to put an end to that before it starts.

“Stop,” he mumbles. “Or else...”

“Or else... what?” Nux props himself up, elbows on either side of Slit's shoulders, grinning down like he knows something Slit doesn't. A spark of anger punches through the lazy, indulgent haze.

“Else I'm gonna get my knife an' make a new hood ornament outta your prick.” He sneers, putting as much heat in to it as he can manage, as slow and sated as he is right now. It must not be a lot, because Nux just laughs and rolls away.

“At least let me wash it off first.”

Slit rolls his eyes, then closes them, content to lie there a little longer. Rutting with your driver, there's nothing against that. Perfectly normal – expected, even. As long as Nux doesn't try to make it into something soft, Slit might even be convinced to do it again. He stretches, a groan like the purr of an engine rumbling around in his chest; he almost misses the way Nux gasps.

“Yeah, I know.” He smirks. “I'm just that-”

“No, Slit.” He hears Nux mumble something sounding suspiciously like ' _get over yourself_ ', then... “Look!”

He pushes himself up and opens his eyes, turning to look back towards the car. By the amount of light pouring in over the gleaming metal of their rig, he'd wager the storm had passed. Slit watches, for a moment, then glances at Nux.

“So? Ain't that big of a deal, storms always clear sooner or later.”

Nux stares at him, the look on his face is ridiculous enough to make Slit laugh – but that's when he sees it. The light from outside, reflecting on the car and scattering around on the cave walls, makes the stone _glow_.

No, not a glow. It's like the glare of the sun on far-off windshields, like the dazzle of an explosion reflected on metal, like the thousands of pinpricks of stars at night. The stone of the wall, the stones in the carts, are filled with fire in more colors than Slit knows how to name.

“... so that's what they were mining,” Nux murmurs, looking back at the starbursts of light. It's impressive, even Slit can't deny that, but the look of wonder in his driver's bright blue eyes steals his breath in a way even the most glittering of riches can't.


	8. ascend

Languid still from their rutting, they sit in the middle of the cavern, casting long shadows beneath the bright shine of the Coupe's headlights. It's better to see with the car running than with only the sunlight trickling in, and the whole cave gleams like fire, like the sun on spilled guzzoline. The mine carts are half full of the starburst stones, tucked between the silent, hulking corpses of dusty machinery.

There's something different between them now. Slit feels charged, like a new engine, tuned up and chrome; he's hyper aware of every move Nux makes, every twitch of his fingers, the click of his throat when he swallows. There's a wheeze in his breath on the exhale, something reedy and thin - it isn't new, but somehow Slit's never paid attention to it before. He doesn't comment, now, but files it away deep in the back of his brain.

They haven't even done war yet – it's too soon for the poison in their bones to start forcing its way into the rest of their bodies.

“I've seen something like this before...” Nux's voice is soft, full of wonder; most of the time, when he talks in that tone, he's going on breathlessly about engines or V8 or the Immortan. This time, it makes Slit sit up and listen.

Still, he snorts, contrary by nature. “You never did.”

“I did!” Slit smirks at Nux's affronted tone, but leans in closer when his driver holds up a rough stone, broken down the center to reveal the shining core. He doesn't understand how there can be so many colors he doesn't have names for. “One of the Wretched had one. Called it an... _opal_. Little pebble, but it looked like the sun through clouds.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah? So how you know 'bout it?”

“An Imperator traded for it... Gave them a whole bucket of aqua cola, and gave the stone to the Immortan, for one of his wives,” Nux says, eyes shining at the memory.

“Whole bucket, for a pebble?” They're pretty enough, for a magpie mind – but you can't eat stones. Still, if the Immortan had given that much for a little thing... Slit glances to the side; there were _cartloads_ here! Even if they only loaded their pockets up with stones, they could ask for anything!

Nux tosses him the rock. It's rough in Slit's hands, no different to any other stone, but the parts that glint and gleam, shifting color as he turns it back and forth, are as smooth as glass. “Go find us some real chrome ones, yeah? I'm gonna work on the pulleys.”

“Don't want my help?” Slit glances up, letting his gaze linger on the cut of Nux's hipbones when he stands. Even now, hidden by the thick fabric of his pants, he can see the naked form of him in his mind.

The heat of his gaze doesn't go unnoticed; a faint blush crawls across Nux's cheeks. So bare of war paint, every expression is so vivid and honest. “You'll just mess it up. Get all the chains tangled up again.”

“I won't!” Slit bares his teeth, but he knows he doesn't have a mind for that sort of thing. Tangled up the timing belt, too, when Nux first let him help on the car.

He knows how to fix a fair few things, like any proper war boy should, but the details never seemed to stick in his mind. Give him his thundersticks, give him a pot of black powder from the Bullet Farm, and he'd make a dozen different types of things that boomed and burned, but the methodical slowness of what Nux excelled in? He'd get frustrated and tear it all apart.

He wants it to bother him, how well Nux knows him. He wants the knowing smirk on his driver's lips to make him mad, not stir that insatiable lust in his belly.

Slit squints at him instead, forcing the scowl deeper when Nux laughs and heads off to the car.

Digging through the mine carts, sorting through the glittering stones, makes him feel infuriatingly like a pup again – scrounging up bits and bobs to give to the older war boys, trading spark plugs for pats on the head. It's not a task fit for a lancer like him, but the thought of drinking himself sick on mother's milk, or trading their prizes for new parts for the Coupe, keeps him on his task.

Still, he's not sure what makes some stones better than others. There are ones so colorful that they look more like the sheen on a spill of oil than something dug up from the earth. The more colors, the better, right? Just the kind of thing the Immortan would want for his Wives, old world things, things with names forgotten. Some of the opals, though, are red and gold like the horizon at sunset, or a vivid _green_ like produce, and he wonders if those might not be more valuable.

He sifts through as much as he can bear, the black of the stone gathering in the grooves of his palms. Slit tosses another rock to the side, reaching for one brighter with an oily sheen, but the glint of it as it rolls over catches his eye. It's rough, unpolished, and smaller than the rest, like a round lizard's egg. Only a little of the color shines through the carapace of rock, white and blue where it's not scabbed over by stone, like a glimpse of the sky through the top of the citadel.

Slit holds it up to the light, and his eyes are dazzled, almost painfully, by the weld-fire gleam; he knows this is what he's been looking for.

Part of him wants to run and show Nux, but he pockets it, separate from the rest of the pile. It's a hard lump against his thigh, jumbling around with a few nuts and bolts and the handle of his knife; different enough to catch and hold his mind, making him think of sky opals, like burning blue eyes, each time his hand brushes his pocket.

While Nux tinkers away at the pulleys and chains, Slit empties out his bag of tools onto the floor of the rig, filling it with opals instead. It's not as an impressive of a haul as he'd have hoped, but they can always come back for more – until someone catches on to where they're getting their prizes, but by then he hopes to have traded for the best the Immortan can offer.

It feels like blasphemy. A good war boy should turn his find over, expecting no reward in return... but these are _his_. He found them, him and Nux. This cave, the aqua cola, the things they did in the darkness, belong to them and them alone.

He's sat in the driver's seat of the Coupe, poking through his bag of treasures, when the car gives a sudden lurch. He hears Nux's shout, but it's joyful, not alarmed. When Slit glances out, he sees Nux punch his hands into the air, smacking together to form the holy symbol of the V8.

The pulleys creak. The chains pull tight, groaning ominously, but they hold. Slowly, an inch at first, and then another, the car rises. It's a tremulous, lurching process, but it's working.

“I can't believe it,” Slit says. He slides to the side of the car, leaning out of the door, and Nux throws a lever to halt the rig's upward progress. “You _actually_ did it.”

His driver is going to be insufferable after this.

Nux clambers up, the motion causing the rig to sway gently in the embrace of the chains. He grins, bright enough to rival the beam of the headlights, and his his hand thumps against Slit's chest, so natural to touch now, like it's allowed. “Said I would.”

Slit wants to kiss him. He's never craved that before – he'd allowed himself to think about fucking, about his prick in Nux's soft mouth and delicate hands, but never... never kissing. Never dared that weakness, but now he knows how Nux's eyelids would flutter shut, he knows how his tongue tastes, knows how right it is to share their breath.

“Got all your shit?” Slit leans back, a wary look. “Don't go forgetting somethin' down here. I wanna get the hell back to the citadel, no driving back halfway through when you remember somethin' you left.”

“I got everything I need,” Nux says, still grinning, looking at Slit like he's daring to put another meaning to the words.

He scoots back further as Nux leans out to throw the lever again; the panel on the roof of the car is still shut, keeping out the worst of the rocks and sand, so he can't quite see how close they are to the top, but he trusts in Nux's ingenuity. His driver revs the engine, ready to slam on the gas once they have solid ground beneath their wheels once again.

It'll be a tale to tell, back with the other war boys. Slit's about to say so, opens his mouth to tell Nux how no one will ever be able to beat the story about their first run, when an explosion rocks the car. It's deafening, and Slit can feel the heat of the blast through the rig's metal roof. Flames billow past the window, engulfing the car until there is nothing left in the world but fire, burning, _roaring_.

It passes, leaving the acrid smell of smoke trickling in through the explosion's wake. His ears ring, a high buzz over the rush of blood and his startled pulse. There's a thump against the roof of the car, then another, and through the haze of smoke he can see rocks starting to fall.

Nux jerks to look at him, and Slit meets his eyes – he can see the realization set in just a moment after he figures it out himself.

The thundersticks. One of the grenades must have caught against the cavern roof. The blast would have ignited the rest, and the explosion against the already weak stone walls... has started a cave-in.

Still, they rise, until a boulder half the size of the Coupe comes crashing down, and there's a horrible screech as the back of the car lifts up in a hurry, leaving him and Nux scrambling to keep from smashing their foreheads into the windshield.

“The chains,” Nux yelps. “... tangled! They're gonna snap!”

His driver has his hand on the door, ready to shove it open and climb out there himself, but Slit yanks the roof panel to the side and clambers onto the burning hot metal before Nux can stop him. It's just like riding on the lift at the citadel – or so he tries to tell himself, skidding on the polished metal and hooking one foot in against the engine, holding himself in place as he reaches for the tangled chain.

His fingertips brush the rusted metal. The car gives another dizzying lurch beneath him, and the whole system of gears and pulleys and chains screams out like a living, dying thing. Something hits his shoulder – a stone, a piece of metal, he can't tell for sure – and he knows they don't have long before the supports for the pulleys crumbles down as well.

“Slit...” He grits his teeth and ignores Nux's voice, both hands on the chains, working quick to untangle the mess, to thread them back through the metal loops that allow the car to rise. The sole of his boot slides across the metal beneath him, and he wills it to hold on, just a moment longer.

The chains come free, and the whole thing gives a terrible shudder. Then there's nothing beneath his feet, the car jerking up, and his hands wrapped tight around the chain is the only thing keeping him from falling right along with the rocks and rubble. His body swings, unsupported, dragged down as their rig is lifted up.

It's the most difficult thing in the world, to let go with one hand, and place it higher on the chain, climbing even as the world falls apart around him. He can hear Nux shouting his name, muffled by the adrenaline coursing through him, from the explosion still echoing in his ears. Nux leans out of the car, as pale as war clay, and reaches out to him.

Slit takes his hand, fingers closing around Nux's wrist, his driver's hand clenching hard around his own, right to left, over the healing cut from their joining. It would be fitting, if he wasn't so terrified of falling, of being trapped in a cave-in, of dying soft with no one to witness. He'd be dying without ever doing proper war, without ever lancing with his driver, without knowing what it was that truly connected them.

He lets go of the chain, and Nux holds tight. Together, with the rig they ascend.

It's a maddening rush, climbing back onto the car, and holding tight as Nux guns the engine; they drive fast, spitting up sand, hearing the chains pull and snap, breaths held and jaws clenched tight until there's solid ground beneath them again, hard-packed earth, and still they drive until the cavern is far behind.

Slit glances back, and watches the dark hole swallow itself in sand and stone. In a day, maybe less, the desert will overtake it. There will be no trace, nothing left to show but their meager bag of opals.

Nux stops the car. Slit throws himself down on the sand, breathless. When the other war boy joins him, pink skin flushing beneath the hot sun, he can't help but laugh. It's a raw sound, but then Nux laughs as well, and they don't stop until they're both panting and trembling.

He reaches out to drag Nux closer – but Nux does the same. They meet in the middle, a quick embrace, no need for words. They made it, they lived, and no one would fault them for this one brief exultation. Slit presses his face to Nux's neck, holding him tight, allowing it for a moment longer, and then he shoves his driver back down into the sand.

“Nice driving, Nuxy.” It's meant as an insult, a ' _you got us into this mess'_. With the way Nux grins, you'd have thought Slit had said he was the best thing since chrome spray.


	9. war

“Eyes on, eyes on! Raiders right!” The orders shouted are almost indiscernible over the rattle of gunfire and the deep blaring of the war rig's horn. An attempt at flanking, then – Slit bends his knees and holds tight to the supports of the lancer's perch, anticipating Nux's sharp turn well before he makes it. It's the kind of connection, deeper than the bond forged by blood and war, that most war boys only dream about having.

Something else is shouted, but this time he can't make out the words; the raiders took the Ace out early on, leaving the Imperator voiceless and vulnerable. Whichever war boy stepped up to the task doesn't have a deep enough tone for it, even if he does know how to call maneuvers. Slit trusts his driver, though, and hefts a thunderstick into his hands as they swerve around the bulk of the war rig.

There's two cars harrying the Imperator's side. Once Slit heaves the spear forward and sends it slicing through the air with deadly precision, there's only one. The car swerves, lean and agile, to avoid the wreckage left of the other, and something about its foreign appearance strikes as familiar in Slit's brain.

He doesn't have much time to dwell on the thought, because the raider car comes charging towards them and Nux fangs it, leaving Slit to twist around to get a firm grip or else risk getting thrown off. The engine roars, the frame of the Coupe car shuddering with the unleashed strength of the V8, and they bait the enemy rig just far enough to obliterated by a side-line smash from the war rig's cabin.

The Imperator's crew sends up a cheer, and Slit raises one fist high, heart pounding and blood soaring with exhilaration. This is war, this is what they were _made_ to do.

Another rig eases up alongside them; Slit recognizes Lurk's distinctive war paint, and catches the thunderstick he tosses over. Thankfully, there's not enough time for anyone to question why needs more. Slit raises a hand in a grateful salute, and wedges the hilt of the lance in its slot. As the rig surges forward and serves around to the other side of the war rig, he hears Vox give a joyful shot, a cry of _Immortan!_ that Nux and the other boys quickly take up.

Celebrations don't last long. Another wave of raiders comes spilling over the dunes like a pack of feral dogs, and this time Slit remembers where he's seen them before – the war party, gathering just beyond Bullet Farm as the sandstorm swept in. He can see the shape of their rigs more clearly now, how they're built to travel light and endure the tumultuous weather of the wastelands. This must have been their plan all along – wait for the cover of a storm and attack.

The war rig's horn blares again, the sound of it nearly deafening from how close they're riding to the cab, and Nux lets their car fall back along the side, mounting a defense as the rig goes barreling through the mass of mutt cars, carving a swathe through the line and chewing through metal and bone alike.

As expected, a few more enemy cars make a pass at the rig's side, but the crew up top pushes them back once again. Slit hefts the second spear to his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the glare of sun off the sand, and waits for the next rig to come into range. V8 willing, they might even be blessed with a trophy to take back to the citadel, a piece of war, something even more precious than their bag of shiny stones.

It's a dangerous thought – too hopeful, too soft – and he is punished for it. He hears the reedy whine of the engine just a moment too late. Slit twists, muscles tensing as he readies the lance to be thrown, but the war bike is too fast, stripped down to the frame to present as small of a target as possible. The driver's hand flashing out is the only warning Slit gets before he's jerked off of the rig

The rope around his neck snaps tight and sends him hurtling towards the hard ground, but the makeshift noose is the last of his worries. The driver of the war bike makes a sharp turn and Slit's side explodes in white hot pain as he's dragged along behind it.

There's a brief moment, before he blacks out, where he gets to watch the chrome glint of their rig speed off without him. In the heat of a road war, there's no time to go back for a fallen lancer. They're easy enough to replace, anyway, but even so, his last thought, as darkness takes him, is that Nux didn't even notice.

The other war boys always did say he was a shit storyteller – better than Morsov, at least, but that's not saying much, since Morsov gets so excited in the telling that he forgets half the facts and makes up such outlandish lies to fill in the gaps. Slit just wasn't interested in the boring parts, so why not skip right to the explosions and peril?

Nux has more of a knack for it, always had.

Nux – sweet, blessed, _idiotic_ Nux. If he was going to die, his last thoughts before he arrived at the gates of Valhalla might as well be of his driver. It should have been together, like they had always said, whispered in the dark of their bunks – Nux and Slit, driver and lancer, _together_ until they gave their lives in the Immortan's service. But after that morning, after the words that were spoken, Slit supposes he's only getting what he deserves.

 

As big as the explosion had been, the damage to their rig was minor. All of the grenades (except, miraculously, for one) had ignited, so whatever scraps of the spears that remained were useless. But aside from a blackened layer of soot and some impressive scorch marks, the Coupe was relatively untouched. Nux had still run his hands over the frame of the car, murmuring to her like he thought Slit couldn't hear, but that much was to be expected from a driver who had built his own rig from scratch.

The bag of precious stones, the opals that had nearly cost their lives to obtain, was slung securely over his shoulder. They'd lost track of the bag for a moment, and he'd been half convinced it had fallen out of the car during their escape from the cave-in, but it had only rolled under the seat – Slit wasn't taking any chances now.

The sun felt overly hot on his bare skin; Slit stepped away from his driver and their rig, shielding his eyes against the glare off the sand. It would have been easier to navigate at night, with the stars to guide them back to the citadel, but they didn't exactly have the luxury of sitting out in the open and waiting for nightfall – or for a pack of Buzzards to come pick them off. Their best bet would be to continue west until they ran into Bullet Farm, then make a straight run back home. With any luck, they'd make it back just after Vox and Gristle, and no one would have to know about his driver's rookie mistakes.

“She'll make it home in one piece,” Nux said, clambering over the engine. “I think she was worse off for the fall than the explosion. Good thing they weren't direct hits. But once we're home, I'll need to take her all apart, find out for sure. I think there might be a crack in the...”

Slit turned to watch, letting his gaze linger on the lines of Nux's back, the curve of his ass as he stretched over the car. His driver carried on talking, chattering in the way he did only about cars, or Immortan Joe, but in Slit's head the words became white noise.

It was ridiculous. This fascination, this _fixation_ , with his driver had to stop. It was distracting. It was impracticable. The rutting was one thing, but Nux had gone and made him _soft_ , and being soft made war boys dead. That was just the way of it.

He'd put an end to it. Once they got back to the citadel, he'd set Nux straight. That's what he'd do. And if Nux couldn't take it, maybe he'd go and find a better driver. With everything that'd happened on their first run, the sandstorm and the crash, no one would say a word against him. No use in a having a soft driver, anyway, even if it wasn't for this... _thing_ between them.

“... right, Slit?”

Slit jerked a little, eyes snapping up to the infernal smirk on Nux's face. He scowled, adjusting the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “Right. Now, come on, Nuxy, what are we still standing here for? You wanna get us made into Buzzard food?”

“You're the one standing around.” Nux's grin widened, and he took a couple steps forward, a little strut in his walk. “I _said_ it was probably a good idea for us to head out – but you were too busy lookin'.”

“Was not!” He growled quietly, stepping up to take the challenge head-on, but he was left spluttering when Nux simply leaned in to kiss him, a solid peck on the lips. It silenced him as effectively as a punch to the throat might have done, only instead of pain he was left with a burning feeling in his cheeks as his driver laughed.

“Know how to shut you up now.” Nux laughed again, so bright and honest. The sound made heat curl in Slit's stomach, but what was worse was the way his heart skipped a beat, the way he itched to smile and laugh and lean in to initiate a kiss of his own.

Fuck, but he was some sorry excuse for a war boy, if that's the kind of thoughts he was having. Slit wished it had made him sick instead.

When he held his ground, Nux moved back in, sultry and _purposeful_ , like he had a right to act like that around Slit now. And he wanted, by V8 he wanted, but it had to end here, now, in this _moment_ , or he'd be lost to the damned sweet softness of it all. It couldn't wait until they were back in the citadel – it would be too late.

But would it be so bad, to be claimed like that? Nux was a good driver, a scrappy fighter, but he had a soft and gentle touch, too. Why not give in, have him both as driver and as... _lover_. It could be the one bright moment of their short half-lives, like the image of a flawless blue sky trapped in the unpolished stone of an opal.

His body made the decision for him. He shoved Nux back, hard and square on the chest to stop his advance. Slit bared his teeth and shoved again, sending his driver catching up against the side of their rig. The flicker of hurt in Nux's eyes wasn't enough to make him stop, but only out of sheer determination.

“The hell you think you're doing, Nuxy?”

“I-”

“Shut up!” Slit snarled. He drew himself up, muscles tensed and nostrils flared, every trick he knew about intimidation. Nux, for his part, looked bewildered. “You don't go _touchin_ ' me like that, you fuckin' rust.”

“Slit-”

“I ain't finished!” It felt good to see Nux shrink back – it felt like validation. Slit stalked forward, and Nux stepped back, sliding along the side of the car until he caught himself, stumbling, against the curve of the exhaust pipes, a flash of something fearful in his eyes.

He had to end this. Had to make it perfectly clear that rutting was all it is. No kissing, no soft touching, just needs being met when they became distractions, like proper war boys.

“You don't touch me like that,” he growled again. “You get it? I ain't no breeder-wife – I ain't _yours_.”

His words struck a nerve, and Nux shoved him back, pushing away from the car and gaining ground. “You're my lancer!”

“And that's all I am!” Slit grappled with him, pushed at his hands, a scuffle fought to gain a few inches of sand, but he could feel Nux backing down already. He could see it, in those damned sky opal eyes, the anger burning out hot and leaving only uncertainty behind, like the soot smeared on the chrome hide of their rig.

“I thought...”

“That's your problem, _Nux_.” He scoffed and aimed a fist at his driver's head. “Too much _thinkin_ '. You thought wrong.”

Nux jerked back, dodging the blow, but Slit could see how much he wanted to fight back; he wanted him to, wanted to end this bloody and victorious, wanted to feel Nux rail against him and not back down. Wanted Nux to fight to keep him, fight for the right to claim him.

No, _no_ , that was soft thinking again. _V8_ , Nux had already sunk it in deep, rusted him all up inside. It pissed him off.

“Fine,” Nux said, voice low. “Get on the fucking car, _Slit_. We're going home.”

That was it. But didn't feel at all like winning. When it came time to tell the story of their first ride, Slit aimed to leave that part out. Nothing shiny about that, nothing chrome.

Driving west until the smoke of Bullet Farm rose on the horizone, then turning down the straight shot towards Citadel – Slit kept at his post on the rear lancer's post, the words he had spoken tumbling over and over in his brain. He held fast to them, kept his blood pumping with the itch to fight, because as long as he was angry, he wouldn't try to take them back.

He'd thrown in his lot. He'd set Nux straight, just like he'd meant to. It was over, done, _finito_. Nux understood – he was a war boy, this was how things went. Slit didn't regret it. Not one bit.

Maybe that's where the story would have started, if he wasn't such a yellow coward. Maybe if he'd known how the day would end, he would've started it different. Maybe he'd have let Nux kiss him, maybe he'd have dragged him into the shade of the Coupe and learned the lines of his body anew.

It's nice to think about. Helps keep his mind off the rope around his neck, and the sand and grit ripping at his side as he's dragged along behind the war bike. The road war, the mutt cars, the raider who had plucked him so effortlessly from the back of his rig.

He must have only blacked out for a moment, since he's not roadkill yet; reaching his hands up to the tight rope of the lasso, Slit sucks in a lungful of dust and blessed air, choking even as he prolonged his life a moment longer. The bike rider doesn't seem to notice he was still alive. Slit vows to sure he pays for his lapse in attention.

But he never gets the chance. One moment the war bike is dragging him across the dunes, and the next it's obliterated, smashed into pieces, the driver sprawling out in a broken heap yards from the wreckage. Slit coughs, yanking at the rope, struggling to breathe, it's too tight and his fingers feel numb, bloated and useless – then there's was a second pair of hands, descending to loosen the lasso, pulling it off and holding him steady as he gasps for air.

“Slit! Slit, look at me!”

There's blood streaming from one eye, clouding over his vision, but he'd know Nux's face anywhere. He coughs again, hands closing on Nux's arms, anything to keep him grounded. If he hadn't known better, he'd say his driver was shaking.

“I've got you... You're safe.” Nux leans in, pressing their foreheads together, and Slit closes his eyes. His skin feels burnt up and raw, and there's a sharp pain when he breathes like his cracked ribs had finally given up and broke completely. His head feels heavy, like he's breathed in aqua cola – but he's alive.

“Damned... _soft_. Y'don't... go back for a lancer...”

“Tough shit, Slit,” Nux murmurs. Slit's too woozy to know for sure, but there's something that sounds an awful lot like regret in Nux's tone. “I'll always come back for you.”


	10. first ride (again)

It's a long, careful ride back; the rigs limp along across the wasteland, keeping a wary watch for a secondary attack. The raiders are shattered, of course, their lean rigs and their leaner bodies lying scattered and broken on the dunes... but Buzzards are opportunistic bastards, and it wouldn't be the first time a damaged war party had been harried by them on the way home.

Slit almost hopes they do. He's useless, bundled up in the back of the Coupe, forced to lick his wounds by his soft driver. Soft head and soft heart, but Slit's too tired to summon up the old, easy anger. Nux had come back for him – Nux had saved him from a mediocre death. He held that thought in his mind as long as he could, praying to V8 and all the gods of the wasteland that that's all it was.

But it gets harder to pretend as the rig eats up the road between them and the citadel. All of his protests, all of his arguments, slip from his mind like sand through his fingers. He's not sure why they mattered so much before, why he fought so hard against it. He can't even summon up the energy to blame it all on his possible concussion; he simply sways with the jolting rhythm of the Coupe, and lets go of it all.

Night has fallen, by the time they reach the strong pinnacles of rock. The moon is overly bright, casting long shadows across the desert, turning rich golds and reds to silver and blue. But they leave it all behind, first to the Organic Mechanic, and then to their bunks once the man is satisfied they're not damaged enough for him to be concerned.

Nux is silent, mostly. It isn't like him – but Slit is silent too, because there's only one thing worth talking about, and even brushing the thought with his mind is like sticking his hand through a burning fire. Much better to ignore it, to push it back down under the surface, hidden like a slow guzzoline leak. It's only what he's been doing for as many days of his half-life as he can remember.

They walk to their bunks amid the endless snores and mutters of their brothers sleeping all around. Most of his weight is on Nux, his body still screaming from his skin stripped raw, cracked ribs and cuts and bruises not withstanding. He's too weary to even curse himself for being weak, though he has enough presence of mind to be grateful that no one is around to see him in this state – no one but Nux, and hasn't that always rung true?

Slit pushes away from his driver and crawls into their bunk with a low groan, stretching out and lying still. He barely notices as Nux shoves him over and curls in beside him. A hard lump presses into his leg as he shifts, and the memory of the starburst stones swims murkily to his mind. It takes a moment before he can speak, coughing dryly and taking a few seconds to pull his thoughts together.

“Where's... the bag?” he croaks.

“... bag?” Nux leans up on an elbow. It's the first word he's said since he untied his lancer and dragged Slit into the back of the Coupe, but for the moment his awkward reluctance to speak is brushed aside.

“Them... opals, didn't you call 'em? In the bag... Was on my back, it...” Slit trails off, face pinched a little as an ache in his head starts pressing in behind his eyes.

“... must've fallen off, when you were dragged from the rig.”

He groans, and shoves at his driver a little roughly. “An' you didn't pick it up?”

“I was more worried about makin' sure you weren't a corpse!” Nux bristles up and Slit expects an echoing anger to rush through him... but oddly, there's nothing. He lies back down, and fishes a hand through his pocket, pulling out the lizard egg stone.

In the dark of their bunk, it's hard to see the colors beneath its rough and cracked surface... but he doesn't need to. All he has to do is glance to his left, and look into Nux's eyes.

“Guess this is all that's left,.” He turns the stone over quick in his fingers, feeling Nux lean in closer, trying to get a look. Without a word, he presses the opal into the other war boy's hand, closing Nux's fingers around it.

“What are you gonna ask for?” There's a trace of reverence in Nux's voice. Slit closes his eyes, breathing in as deeply as his ribs will allow.

“'s yours,” he mumbles. “Keep it, trade it... toss it off the citadel, fuck if I care.” Then, even more softly, he continues. “Don't need anything else.”

He feels Nux shift again, as careful as he can be – and he knows his driver's purpose long before he moves again, and Slit lets it happen. Nux's lips on his is the first drink of water on a thirsty, dry run. Instinctively, he opens his mouth to it, pressing up, pressing for more, but his body is fast to remind him of the suffering he put it through. With a wince, he lies back.

“Nux...”

“I don't wanna hear it, Slit.” His driver's hand lands over his mouth, firm enough to make his intention known. Slit opens his eyes, and it's eyes the color of sky opals gazing back down. “... full of shit, Slit. Shit-Slit. That's what I should call you.”

Slit huffs, a little narrowing of his eyes that makes Nux smirk. He moves his hand away, but only so they can share another kiss, and for once Slit doesn't feel like fighting.

“Always meant it, you know,” Nux murmurs. “You and me... Together, at the gates of Valhalla... an' now we're driver and lancer, that's the way it's gonna be. I promise.”

“Yeah...” It's more of an exhale than a proper word, but Slit nods. “Yeah... You and me.”

Nux moves in closer, as close as he dares with Slit's side ripped half to shreds, and the press of his lips feels like coming home.

_Please_ , he wants to beg – to Nux, to the Immortan, to anyone who might be listening out in the wasteland. Please, just to stay like this forever, as driver and lancer, as  _one_ , together like this, together in everything, until the final, blessed end.

But he's never held much stock in prayers and wishes and gods. Nothing holy ever answered him, not even Immortan Joe – no, Slit trusts what he can touch, the strength of his own arms and the precision of a grenade-tipped thunderstick. He trusts the V8 beneath the Coupe's hood, the trials and rites of passage which brought them from war pup to war boy. The healing scars on their arms, Nux's blood mixed in his vein, burning like nitro.

Maybe... Maybe it can be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who subscribed, bookmarked, and left kudos and comments. I cannot express how much it all means to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://hurricanine.tumblr.com/). :D


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